Sorry I've been MIA but I got my neck drilled last week. As in, lemme knock your ass unconscious, intubate you, slice your neck open and stick in a tube a mere centimeter or two from your spinal cord, so we can MAYBE free your arm of excruciating pain and MAYBE you'll have a shot at feeling your left fingertips again.
As far as spinal surgeries go, I've endured worse. But the whole process isn't exactly your typical ring-around-the-rosie shit. It hurt like a motherfucker. I couldn't turn my neck. Still can't fully, but believe you me I'm a helluva lot better than I was last week. One cannot turn one's nose up at progress.
By far, the biggest, fattest residual suckage is that I'm rendered physically unable to pick up or push my three year old in a stroller for at least a month. Girleen isn't exactly taking kindly to this new little factoid. My Big Boy is verboten from wrapping his arms around my neck and dragging the full weight of his 47 lb body on me, as he is so fond of doing. He must hug me as if I am made of fine china. He, also, is not really feeling this.
The inability to care for my kids breaks my heart and pisses me off more than anything.
But believe it or not, there are many positives to my predicament. Because I'm a bit hindered, my Hubs is, for the most part, working from home. One or more of us get to be with him for ten more hours PER DAY. There is nothing I like more than looking up from my laptop at 10am to see him just a few feet away, free of the clutches of business casual attire, calmly smiling beneath his sprouting scruff and tending to his biznazz. Our kids have the pleasure of seeing this same, grinning mug at drop off and pick up and anytime in between. This is its own, glorious chemical-free anesthetic.
And did I mention the drugs are GOOD?!
Anywho, enough of this poetic bullshit.
Here's some funny I found while convalescing:
As I've spent a lot of time on my back lately - and not in a good way -- I've had PLENTY of time to catch up on the high art of lowbrow television, like my new personal Bravo fave, The Real Housewives Of Beverly Hills.
Let's begin with the oh-so-odious creature called Camille Grammar. She wants you to know she's not like the other Housewives. She doesn't just run and go shoe shopping. Instead, she makes a taxing sojurn to the office by walking all the way down her driveway to separate "office" the size of my apartment building. In this clip, she just can't figure out how Nickelodeon can resist the realness of a show inspired by her daughter's relationship WITH HER NANNY.
These frosted flakes need to be seriously checked by my crew, The Real Housewives Of Brooklyn, STAT. Even in my compromised state, I'd muster the strength to dope slap the extensions off of anyone of these puff pieces ON SIGHT.
Rock 'N Roll Hootchie Coochie
Another BRILLIANT creation I've stumbled upon, is comprised of a collective brain trust on E!'s latest gem, Married To Rock. In this scene, these real-life blow up dolls start to leak some air while burping up assorted pearls of wisdom, like "Just because you slut it up once in a while, doesn't make you not a good mom!"
Clearly, this is a far cry from the sequel E! has in development, Married to MENSA.
"I Got Tits!"
My homes Louis CK describes what an 12-year old girl and a 40-year old man have in common.
And with that, I feel it's time for another painkiller.
If you're feeling in a generous way, Babble is doing this thing called Nominate a Blogger or whatever. I write for them on occasion yet somehow, I'm still WAY off the map.
Can you help make me too legit to quit?
Much like your favorite sexy pastime, doing it once just isn't enough. Vote OFTEN for The Mad Mom by CLICKING HERE and know you are doing a good thing by helping me rise from the bowels of obscurity to the intestines of obscurity!